A Night of a Thousand Stars
by Ceres Wunderkind
Summary: In this sequel to His Day's Work, Chris Johns returns to his home by the Grand Junction Canal where he meets friends both old and new.
1. Lockkeeper's Cottage

**_A Night of a Thousand Stars_**

For the Sraffies

Original characters and situations are copyright © Ceres Wunderkind 2006

'Have a look up there. It's not very good, is it?'

'No, you're right. It isn't.'

It was mid-morning on a beautiful day; and I was standing at the back of Lockkeeper's Cottage, looking up at the gable end wall. Now that it was May and spring had well and truly sprung, it was time to think about doing a little maintenance. Winter had been hard this year and the paintwork was beginning to look distinctly weatherworn. I wondered what else might need attention.

'You can't do much. You've only got four weeks,' said my daemon Jemima.

'I know.' That was true enough. I'd got home from Mancunia just the night before and I'd have to be back there by the middle of June. It seemed the University vacations were always too short.

'And you've got your Finals coming up. You need to revise.'

'Yes, I do know that.' Irritating creature! But we both knew where our priorities lay. Besides, we'd got through our Intermediates without any problems and it was my belief that time spent with my head out of a book was as valuable as time spent in close study. It was as if my mind was set free to organise its contents while my hands were busy doing something that was nothing whatsoever to do with Advanced Relative Mechanics.

So... 'The pointing's a bit shaky,' said Jemima.

'Hmmm…' I jabbed a pencil into the mortar next to the kitchen window. A small piece fell out. 'It's not that bad.'

'It needs doing.'

'More than the painting?'

'I think so.'

'You've changed your tune, daemon. Just now you were dead keen on us revising for the whole vac.'

'And now I think you're right about needing a break from studying. This wall needs re-pointing. We've got to keep the cottage in good order. We're honour-bound.'

What could I possibly say in answer to that?

- 0 -

Jemima and I walked across the grounds of the Estate, up Stratford Way and along the busy Hempstead Road until we reached the West End of Cassiobury. There, next to the pond, stood Bannion's Hardware and Building Requisites, with its display of ladders, bags of peat, doormats, paint pots, deckchairs, dustbins and boot-scrapers overflowing onto the pavement. I navigated around the piles of goods, pushed the door open and entered the shop with the doorbell jangling loudly above my head. A middle-aged man in brown overalls with a finch-daemon on his shoulder and a faint aura hovering around the bald crown of his head was standing behind the counter. Good shopkeeper that he was, he recognised one of his regular customers immediately.

'Good morning, Mister Johns!'

'Good morning, Master Bannion.'

'And what can I do for you this fine morning?'

I told Master Bannion about the re-pointing work the cottage needed. He nodded understandingly and retreated into the dusky depths of the shop for a minute or two, returning with a brown bag full of fine grey powder.

'Three to one mix, and don't make up more than a couple of pounds of mortar at a time else it'll set before you've used it all.'

'Yes, Master Bannion.'

'And use tap water to mix it, not that murky stuff you get out of the canal. All that mud, algae and frog-spawn will stop it setting properly.'

'Right you are, Master Bannion.'

'Good. Shall I charge it to the usual?'

'Yes please, Master Bannion.'

Of course I had been foolish to go to Bannion's first. I still needed to visit Caters' store and buy myself some food. The bread and milk I had brought down on the train from Mancunia wouldn't last much longer. So, like an idiot, I had to hump that ten-pound bag of mortar up and down Caters' aisles and by the time I'd got enough stock in to last a couple of days I was seriously weighed down. I lurched out of the shop and sat down on a bench by the side of the Pond.

'Come on,' said Jemima. 'Let's get back.'

'Are you offering to help me carry this lot?'

'Don't be daft!'

So, staggering slightly and with my hamster-daemon riding smugly in my coat pocket, I stood up and returned to the cottage; and if I found myself reminiscing about the very first time I had carried a load of shopping back there, well that was only natural.

- 0 -

My feet knew the way from Cassiobury town to Lockkeeper's Cottage perfectly well without any help from my eyes so I didn't pay very much attention to my surroundings as I walked through the Estate. Cassio Estate is privately owned, of course, but the owners have always been happy to grant public access to it; to the extent that the locals call it "the park" and treat it as if it were public property. So it was not unusual to see mothers with their children mingling with the Estate staff and, in the middle of the day, office workers or nurses from the Memorial Hospital taking their lunch on the grass, and I hardly noticed them. I looked down at the path mostly, afraid that I might stumble under my burden.

There was a small wood between the open spaces of the park and the Grand Junction canal. My home nestled between this wood, the weir, and the lock which gave the cottage its name. Normally the owner of the house would be liable for the upkeep of the lock and the stretch of water - known as the pound - above it. In my case this responsibility was waived and Albert Jones at the Rickmonsworth lock looked after the Cassiobury part as well, collecting a yearly consideration for his trouble.

So I wasn't all that surprised to find a Morris van parked by the side of the cottage even though, with my head down as it was, I nearly bumped into it. It was probably once of the Estate vehicles, or maybe it belonged to a friend of Albert's. What did startle me so much that I almost dropped my packages was the car that was parked in front of it. It was a Merlyn 3000SE two-seater drop-head coupé, in gleaming silver and black, with a pair of wide chromium-plated exhaust pipes at the rear and the flared bonnet line that told me it was powered by the supercharged variant of the standard 180 cubic inch six-cylinder gazole engine. I stared at it with undisguised lust. The door wasn't locked, was it? Perhaps if I just sat in it… Tried the starter... Did it have the power-steering option? I'd have to give it a go. I wondered whose it was. Probably a guest at the big house. They wouldn't miss it for just five minutes, would they? Suppose I kept off public roads?

'Chris!' said my daemon sharply and dug a claw into me. 'Stop it!'

'Doesn't hurt to look.'

'Then leave it at that.' Jemima's voice was stern. She knew, more than anyone else, where my weakness lay. So I gave the car one last longing gaze and went round to the front of the house. I put my bags down and dug into my trouser pocket for the front door key. Jemima stopped me.

'Look!' she said. I immediately saw what she meant. The door was already open. Damn! Had my house been burgled while I was out shopping? The vehicles outside didn't look like getaway cars - but wait... Perhaps the thieves hadn't heard me coming and were inside the cottage right now, ransacking its contents. You could get quite a lot of furniture into that van.

I'm not exactly what you might call brave. The most sensible thing for me to do would have been to run up to Cassio Hall and get help. They knew me, of course, and there would have been sure to be some servants who would have helped. I'm not brave; but neither did I want to leave the cottage to be robbed while I, as it were, ran away.

'Shout,' said Jemima. 'Scare them off.'

I took her in my hands and smiled at her. 'Good idea.'

So, at the top of my not terribly impressive voice I called out, 'Tim! Alec! You cover the back door. Ian and I'll go in at the front.'

'Right, Chris,' I replied to myself, hoping I sounded convincing. Then I hid behind the abutment of the bridge which crossed the canal below the bottom lock gate and gave the housebreakers a minute or two to make their escape.

Nothing happened. I waited another minute. Still no movement. I could hear nothing but the swish of water running over the weir, the trees of the wood brushing against one another in the wood behind me and the lazy chug of a northbound boat in the downhill pound. It would reach the lock in another five minutes or so.

That would suit me very well. There would be witnesses, and maybe help, if I had need of it. So I waited until the boat had nudged its way between the bottom gates of the lock and waved to the man at the tiller, who waved back. He knew me, as did all the commercial boatmen who plied the Grand Junction Canal from London to Brummagem and beyond.

Surely his arrival, with its dull thump of wooden hull against lock wall and clatter of windlass in iron ratchet, would scare off my unexpected and unwelcome visitors. I waited, crouched down with my legs cramped, for another five minutes,

Still nothing. I relaxed a little and smiled to myself. I was being foolish and cowardly. There was nobody in the cottage. I had carelessly left the door ajar when I went into town. The presence of the car and the van was no more than a coincidence. They probably belonged to some people from the Hall who had driven down to the waterside to try and catch some trout.

Still smiling at myself, I pushed the door right open and walked into the cottage. I dumped my shopping onto the kitchen table and was about to start storing it away in the larder when I heard a creak from the floorboards over my head.

Damn! I had been right all along. There _were_ intruders in my house. And if they hadn't run off when the boat passed through the lock they must be pretty sure of themselves. I had two choices - fight, or run. So, as I had run and hidden myself before, I decided to stand and fight this time. I took my biggest carving knife from the cutlery drawer and walked upstairs, Jemima concealed in my coat pocket. I stopped on the landing and listened carefully. Yes… there was somebody moving about in the spare bedroom. I drew a deep breath, held the knife out in front of me, crossed the landing and kicked the door wide open.

'What the hell are you doing here?' I said as loudly and confidently as I could manage.

There were two people in the room; a man and a woman. The man had a notebook in his left hand and a pencil in his right. The woman was leaning against the windowsill. She turned slowly and looked at me, her head silhouetted against the light and her face both invisible and unreadable.

'I could,' she said, 'ask you the same question. What on earth are _you_ doing in Arthur Shire's house?'

I was taken aback for a moment. What did she mean?

'Tell her,' said Jemima from the safety of my pocket. 'And put that knife down.'

I did, once again feeling rather foolish.

'Well?' said the man. 'Answer the lady.'

'It's not Arthur's house, it's mine. I live here. He gave it to me.'

'Did he?' asked the woman. 'I suppose you can prove that.'

'Yes, I can,' said the man.

'Go on, then.'

'Not now, I can't. There's an official document. It's at the solicitor's; Quinn's in Station Road. It's not far.' There was a brief silence.

'I think,' said the woman, 'that we should all go downstairs and have a nice cup of tea.' She led the way down my stairs through my hallway and into my kitchen. The man with the notebook followed her and I followed him.

They sat down at the kitchen table while I bustled about with kettle and teapot. Nobody said anything until I put the mugs down and asked, 'Milk? Sugar?'

The man took milk and two sugars. The woman took neither milk nor sugar, though I suspected she would have liked a slice of lemon. I sat down opposite them and had a good look at them for the first time. The man resembled a bank manager or a solicitor in a business suit and tie, his owl-daemon perched neatly beside him. He had no aura about him that I could see. The woman was also dressed formally, in a dark pencil skirt, white blouse and pearl necklace. Her daemon was a small creature with soft brown fur. I didn't recognise what kind of animal he was formed after.

The first thing that most people would have noticed about the woman was that she was very beautiful, with long dark hair tied in a chignon at the nape of her neck, an oval face with clear hazel eyes, and a mobile, expressive mouth. Most people, I say, but what I saw first was her aura; which glowed more brightly and was more imbued with life than anybody's I had seen before, except for one. One _special_ person. Arthur.

She was obviously used to the effect her appearance had on people, but I doubt she knew exactly why I was so tongue-tied in her presence. However, she did know how to deal with it.

'Thank you for the tea,' she said with a gentle smile. 'Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sonya Moon, and this is Mister Randall.' She held her hand out and I shook it, not sure whether I shouldn't have kissed it instead. I shook Mister Randall's hand as well.

'Chris Johns,' I said.

'I expect you're wondering what we're doing here,' said Mister Randall.

'Yes, I am rather.'

'It's come to our attention that this house has been falling into a state of some disrepair.' He opened his notebook and consulted it. 'Let's see - flaking external paintwork, rotting sills, front fence damaged, poor decorative order throughout. Oh, and there's some evidence of damp penetration at the back. The north-east facing wall.' He closed the book again.

I shook my head. 'I don't understand. Are you from the Brytish Gyptian Council? Are you checking up on me?' I was beginning to feel indignant and rose from my seat. 'I look after the place as well as I can. Look! I've just been to get some mortar to fix up the back wall. What's it got to do with you, anyway?'

'Please sit down, Mister Johns,' the woman said softly. I sat down, feeling more foolish than ever. 'Tell us about yourself. We didn't expect to find you here. Arthur didn't say anything about you.'

That startled me. 'Arthur? You've been speaking to Arthur?'

'In a way.'

'Oh... I've not seen him or heard from him for nearly six years. Is he all right? How is he? Is he well?'

Miss Moon leaned forwards over the table. 'He's old, Mister Johns. Very old.' And her aura, the flying cloud of amber Dust that orbited around her shoulders, dimmed for a moment. Her daemon nestled into the crook of her arm.

'Perhaps it would help,' said Mister Randall after a respectful pause, 'if you told us how you come to be living here.'

'Did Arthur never tell you about this house?'

'No,' replied Miss Moon.

'Well, it was like this...' And I told Mister Randall and Miss Moon how it was that when I was fifteen I had helped Mister Shire with redecorating his house. I didn't tell her I'd been in trouble with the law for stealing cars or that I had been sent to work for Mister Shire as a punishment.

'The Merlyn; is it yours?' I asked.

'Yes, it is.'

'Very nice.'

I went on, 'He knew he'd made a mistake, selling his boats and buying this house. I think he was slightly ashamed of himself. That's probably why he never told you about it before.'

'Hmmm. So, he let you stay here?'

'Yes, he went back to the water and gave me the cottage.'

'That's most unusual, wouldn't you say?' said Mister Randall. 'To give a valuable piece of property to a fifteen-year-old boy?'

'Arthur is a most unusual man,' I said. Sonya Moon smiled.

'But you have rather let the place go, have you not?' said Mister Randall. He looked at me accusingly.

I paused. 'Look, I don't understand. Why are you here, looking round the cottage? I didn't ask you to come. I asked you before and you didn't answer me. Are you from the Brytish Gyptian Council?' For the terms under which I lived in the cottage included a clause that upon my death it would revert to the Gyptians' governing body. The house was only borrowed.

'No, we're not,' said Mister Randall.

'So who are you?'

'I am Miss Moon's estate manager. I am responsible, among other things, for the upkeep of her property.'

'But this isn't her property!' I turned to Miss Moon. 'Sorry, but you can see why I'm puzzled. This gentleman looks after your estates, fine, but that doesn't explain why you're here.' A thought suddenly struck me. 'Oh, wait a mo. I get it. You said you'd been in touch with Arthur.'

'Or rather,' she said, 'he's been in touch with me.'


	2. Cassiobury

Miss Moon had been in London, apparently, seeing an old friend and doing some business; something political, she said. In fact, she had been standing on the river terrace of the Great Parliament, talking to a private secretary in the People's Party, when the conversation had been interrupted by what could only be described as an apparition. It was Arthur; not as I had known him, solid and real, but a wavering and insubstantial phantom. He had spoken to her, but in a voice so faint that she had only been able to pick out the words "Cassio" and "lock".

'Then he vanished,' Miss Moon said. 'Just like that. It was the most terrible shock. I dropped everything and gave Mister Randall a call. He looked through the Census lists for me and found this house with Arthur Shire registered as its sole inhabitant.'

'The last Census was nine years ago,' I said. 'The records are well out of date.'

'So I see,' said Miss Moon. 'Anyway, I drove up from London yesterday, found the cottage, and asked Mister Randall to come down and take a look at it. I was worried about it, you see, and Arthur. I could guess why he had wanted to tell me to come here, if that was what he had been trying to tell me.'

She shook her head. 'He looked so faded and tired, Mister Johns. I'm worried about him.'

I told Miss Moon and Mister Randall that I only lived in the cottage during University vacations. 'Arthur and I did the cottage up six years ago and I've not had the time to do much maintenance since then, although the Gyptian Council helps me with the cost - I've no money of my own. I've told you - I was going to do some work on the gable end wall over the vac. Look, I've got the mortar and everything.'

'Scaffolding?' said Mister Randall.

'What?' I asked, not understanding what he meant.

'Have you got any scaffolding?'

'Er, no.'

'Or a ladder?'

I shook my head.

'So how are you going to re-point a twenty foot high wall? Eh? Hmm… I can see we need to get some _professional_ help in here.'

'You see, Mister Johns,' said Miss Moon. 'I think Arthur's coming home. Here. And we must get everything ready for him. Because… because I think he's coming here to die.'

That hit me hard. So hard that I put my head in my hands and studied the top of the kitchen table. After ten seconds or so I felt an arm on my shoulder. I lifted my head. Miss Moon was looking directly into my face and I could see tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.

'I'm such a soppy old thing,' she said, and smiled enchantingly. 'It doesn't take much to set me off.'

'Me too,' I replied.

- 0 -

The three of us stood at the rear of the house. 'You see,' I said. 'This side of the cottage backs onto the wood so there's not much light. We cut it back once, but it's grown up again. And, as if that weren't enough, the spray from the weir keeps the air moist. I'm always getting mould and damp round this side.'

'We could cut down the wood, I suppose,' Mister Randall said. 'Let the sun and air in.'

'I can't. It's not mine - it belongs to the Estate. Anyway, I like it.'

'Well, all right.' He turned to Miss Moon. 'What would you like me to do, Miss?'

'How soon can you get a gang down here, Mister Randall?'

'Tomorrow, Miss. I'll need to brief young Reindorp first about what needs doing up in Goring.'

'So we'll start tomorrow.'

'But…'

Miss Moon put her hands on her hips. 'We've got to get the cottage ready for Arthur's return. You do see that, don't you?'

'Yes, but…'

'Don't worry.' She smiled. 'My people are the best there are. You'll hardly know they're here. Mister Randall and I will pop in from time to time to make sure everything's going well. The cottage'll be as good as new in no time at all!'

I was uncertain at first, but Mister Randall showed me his long list of things that needed doing, both inside and outside the house. Woodwork, brickwork, plumbing, internal and external decoration, planting and weeding in the garden, fence-mending. Some of the carpets were worn and needed to be replaced; likewise the upholstery and curtains.

'That's going to cost a fortune!' I said. 'I'll have to get in touch with the Gyptians before you can do anything. They'll have to approve the work before you can start.'

'Because of the money?' asked Miss Moon.

'Yes,' I replied. 'They're not exactly wealthy. They have to be careful.'

'Well, I don't. Not that careful, anyway. And besides, it's all for Arthur.'

I still wasn't sure, but she kept talking to me and she was so persuasive and her Dust-aura glittered so brightly even in the open light of day that in the end I was won over.

'Just think, Mister Johns,' she said, permitting me to hand her into the driving seat of the Merlyn, 'you'll be able to concentrate one hundred percent on your Finals now.' I closed the door. 'And don't forget,' she added, 'it's all for Arthur!' She drove off in a supercharged roar. I stepped aside to avoid the gravel flying up from her rear wheels.

- 0 -

Of course, it was all a complete disaster so far as I was concerned. I moved out on the second day and went knocking on my sister Flora's door with my hold-all in my hand and what I hoped was a let's-be-friends expression on my face.

Flora and I have never got on very well. I hadn't actually been planning on doing any more over the holidays than popping in for a quick cup of chai for good manners' sake (and because Jemima said I should). I knew she resented my good fortune in having the cottage and the prospect of an interesting career while she was stuck in a municipal flat with her four-year-old son Archie and had no career or prospects whatsoever. 'You don't talk like us any more,' she'd said once, not long after I'd started my first term at Uni. 'You're too bloody lah-di-dah for that now, aren't you?' It was no good my protesting that I was reading an applied theological subject, not Law or English Literature, and that I was at Mancunia, not Oxford or Cantabriensis. That cut no ice with her at all. It was still University, and it was still posh so far as she was concerned. And, of course, what really stung was that this promotion, as it were, had stemmed from my being had up in court for stealing cars. She had never been in any kind of trouble in her life, as she often used to remind me.

'Hello! What do you want?' she said, opening her front door on the chain.

'Cup of chai would be nice,' I said.

'Uncle Chris!' came Archie's voice from inside the flat. 'Uncle Chris!' So then my sister had to drop the chain and let me in. If she or her Kalli were surprised to see the bag hanging from my right hand they didn't show it.

We sat down in the kitchen. I said a proper hello to Archie and my Jemima greeted his Eleanor. I could see that my sister was wondering why I had come to see her, so I told her about the cottage and Mister Randall and Miss Moon of Goring. Flora showed little real interest until I mentioned her.

'Miss _Sonya_ Moon?' she asked.

'Yes. So what? Moon's a common enough name.'

My sister said nothing, but got up and went into the lounge, returning with a copy of _Gossip_ magazine. It was not the sort of thing I usually read. 'Page five,' Flora said. I opened the magazine.

And there she was, my Miss Moon, dressed up to the nines and being handed out of a large black car by a young man in faultless evening wear. Miss Moon was wearing the kind of couturier frock which costs correspondingly more the less material is used in its making. A dazzling array of jewellery hung around her neck and a diamond tiara nestled in her ebon hair. Underneath the 'gram the caption read, "PM'S DAUGHTER SHINES IN NIGHT OF 1000 STARS". The story described the glittering occasion - a kino première in the West End of London - in exhaustive detail; listing every dignitary, film star, popular singer and hanger-on who had been present.

'Yes,' I said, slightly dazed. 'That's her.'

'Aren't we just mixing in High Society now! Up to the Palace next week, I wouldn't be surprised!'

'Flora - it's not like that. She just turned up. It's something to do with Arthur Shire.'

'Her?' Flora's voice dripped scorn. 'And Arthur? The Gyptian? She's the Prime Minister's daughter, for heaven's sake! What would she be doing with Gyptians?'

'Arthur's very high-up in Gyptian councils.'

'And he's still a Gyptian.' That ended it. But I still had to explain what was going on at the cottage.

'She's taken over - or her man Mister Randall has. They've stripped the place out. They've only been there a day and the place is completely empty. They've carted all the old stuff off and lifted the floorboards. There are workmen all over the place.'

'So?'

'So there's nowhere for me to stay. I've got nowhere to sleep.'

'Go back to Mancunia then. Stop with your rich friends.'

'Oh Flora, don't you see? I can't leave Cassiobury. Not if Arthur's coming back. I can't risk missing him.'

Flora's face softened a bit at that. She'd liked Arthur, for all her disdain of Gyptian folk.

'So…'

'Could I sleep on the couch? I won't get in your way. I'll be revising in the library most of the time.' The public library was only a few doors down from Bannion's Hardware and quite handy for the cottage.

'No! I'm not having you cluttering the place up with all your books! There's no room.'

'Please, Flora. I've got Finals next term. You don't want me to plough them, do you?'

'Why should I care?'

I looked around in despair. 'Mum wouldn't want me to throw away my chances. You know that.'

Flora glared at me. ' How dare you! How dare you use Mum's memory to blackmail me! Get out! Get out of my house! Get out now!'

But Archie said, 'Is Uncle Chris coming to stay, Mummy?' and his Eleanor fluttered her sparrow-wings in delight before changing to mouse-form and hiding shyly in his sleeve.

- 0 -

I slept on the couch. During the day I kept out of Flora's way as much as I could. I took Archie for walks in the park when she went out and did as much reading as I could in the library when she was in. Every day or so I wandered down to the cottage to see how the work was progressing and also, if I were being honest with myself, to see if the fascinating Miss Moon were there. Quite often she was and we would exchange polite words about the renovations. Once she even showed me some swatches of curtain fabric and invited me to choose the ones I liked best. I never stayed long, though and left after a few minutes, stopping only to admire her car.

In between bouts of revision I did a little research on Miss Sonya Clarice Moon. She was indeed the only daughter of the Prime Minister, Admiral Sir Ronald Moon, RN (Retd). She had had an elder brother Gerald, but he had been killed at sea in the early days of the Holy War. Her mother had died several years previously.

The Moons - these Moons, at any rate - were, to put it mildly, pretty comfortably off. All right, they were rolling in it. They owned vast tracts of fertile farmland across South Oxfordshire, Wiltshire and Berkshire. There was a large house near Goring, a couple of adjoining town houses in London's Gresham Square and a hunting lodge in Caledonia, not to mention Sir Ronald's official residences in Downing Street and Gloucestershire. Both Sir Ronald and Miss Moon moved in high political circles, while trusted servants like Mister Randall saw to the administration of their estates. Miss Moon seemed to spend much of her time on diplomatic missions in the courts and Parliaments of Europe and the Afric States. And so Flora's question came back to me. How on earth had she - rich, pampered, used to the very best that life could offer - become so close to Arthur Shire that he had gone to _her_ when he was in need, and not me?

I tried not to resent her intrusion into my affairs, but I couldn't help it. I echoed Flora's words in my mind when I should have been busy studying the compound motions of triple-eccentric cams in high-speed gazole engines. How dare she come stomping into my life, throwing her money and her influence around, and chucking me out of my home? Suppose I failed my July exams because of her and the disruption she'd caused?

'She'd _buy_ you a first-class Honours degree if that happened,' said Jemima bitterly.

Yes. She probably would.

- 0 -

The weeks passed, quickly or slowly according to the weather and the progress I was making with my revision. The restoration - for it was nothing short of that - of the cottage proceeded uniformly swiftly. Extraordinarily swiftly, I've learned since. Work never stopped, but carried on by arc light during the hours of darkness. Within three weeks of Miss Moon's first appearance there the place was looking as spick-and-span as she had promised it would. To my great relief, most of Arthur's furniture had been brought back, repaired and re-upholstered. It would have broken my heart, I think, if the Windsor chairs that stood on either side of the fireplace in the back room had been burnt for firewood. But there they were, freshly polished and glowing in the newly installed anbaric light. The back of the house was brighter now - someone had had words with the estate manager at the Hall and the wood that separated the weir from the grounds had been trimmed back. The garden at the front had received the attentions of the Hall's staff as well and the picket-fence was mended and freshly painted.

I half expected a reporter from _Gracious Homes Monthly_ to turn up to write a gushing article - illustrated with glossy coloured photograms - of this cosy semi-rural retreat. The boatmen stared at the cottage as they passed through the lock, while being careful not to scrape against the polished brass fittings that had been added to the ladders and paddles. It seemed there would never be an end to the disruption, but eventually even Mister Randall agreed that the renovation was complete, the last workman left, and I moved back in with only a couple of days to go until I had to return to Mancunia for my final term. The nights were still a little chilly; but what did that matter when I could light a town-gas fire at the turn of a valve or draw a steaming hot bath by simply spinning a tap?

Yes, the improvements were nice, I supposed. The new paint was fresh and clean, the new carpets were free from dust and dirt. The kitchen gleamed with shiny new appliances. There was a new wireless in the back room and a new colour AV set in the front parlour which I had no intention whatsoever of turning on. New taps on a new bath and hand basin in the new bathroom upstairs. It was all so bloody new I could hardly stand to look at it. The cottage was more like a shiny hotel suite than a real home.

'Don't worry,' said Jemima. 'We'll soon get everything nicely messed up again. Just you wait until I get my claws into that sofa in the front room!'

I looked at her and laughed. Hamster claws weren't going to make much of a rip in the sofa's top-class leather covering. 'Oh, sod it!' I muttered and stomped upstairs to my nice new bedroom, leaving a defiantly unwashed teacup on the kitchen table.

- 0 -

The next day was the last I would spend in the cottage before catching the early train to Mancunia the following morning. The weather was fine, though with a threat of rain later, so I took a textbook onto the newly mown lawn at the front and sat on a deckchair, pretending to study it. In reality, I was semi-dozing, watching the boats pass through the lock. Some were heading upstream to Kings Langley and the Chilterns, some downstream to Rickmonsworth and beyond; to London where the Grand Junction canal passes through one final lock and out onto the River Isis. Actually, upstream and downstream are the wrong words to use when talking about canals as there is no continuous flow along them. The water is stationary in the stretches between locks, except for the small amount that flows over the weirs. Only when a lock is filled does water move down the pound. Steam-pumps move water from the lower parts of the canal to the higher, unless there is a spring that can be tapped at the summit level. Fortunately the Chiltern Hills are built of limestone and chalk and springs are common there. The Kennet and Avon canal in Berkshire always seems to be running dry. If there were no traffic on the canal the water would soon become quite clear, except for a layer of algae and other plant life on its surface. It is only the swirling action of boat propellers and the rush of water through paddle and sluice that stirs up the mud which would otherwise lie quietly on the puddled clay bed of the cut. That is why the water usually looks so turbid and brown.

The day passed slowly. I cut myself some sandwiches for lunch and wondered about making a last visit to see Flora and Archie, but decided against it. My stay with them hadn't been as bad as I'd thought it would be; but there again nothing could have been quite as awful as that.

By eight o'clock I had done little reading and less study and it was time to think about going inside. I made some leek soup on the gas range and ate it with the last of the bread. Then I mooched around up and down the canal towpath for a while. Then I ate some ice-cream from the freezer. Then I mooched around some more. I sat in the parlour for an hour and watched a detective show on the AV. I went outside again. It had not started to rain yet, but clouds had gathered overhead and it seemed likely that the following morning would be wet. Just what I needed when I had to carry all my stuff to the station! I checked the security of the windows and the back door, as I would have little time the following morning if I wanted to catch the seven-thirty train north to Mancunia. Then I packed up all my belongings and went to bed. Sleep was slow to come, but nevertheless by eleven o'clock I had dropped off.

I was woken an hour or two later by an unexpected light in the window. I wondered at first if the moon had risen, but then I remembered that the sky was completely clouded over. So I got out of bed and went to the front window of my room; the one that overlooked the canal. This had been Arthur's bedroom once, when he had still lived at Lockkeeper's Cottage. Jemima looked out from my pyjama pocket as I opened the curtains.

The light was still there, but it was strange in a manner that I did not immediately understand. It was wrong in some subtle way. For example, the leaves of the trees on the slope opposite were shining green, but in an odd manner. It was as if they had been turned upside down so that the wrong side faced the sky. The effect was ghostly and unreal. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. And then I realised what it was that was so strange. If I had not only just woken from sleep perhaps I would have seen it sooner. The light was not coming from above, but _below_.

The canal was filling up with stars.

They were packing tightly together; great galaxies and nebulae of stars, massed in clouds of blue, red, green and white and casting their light upwards to the earthly clouds overhead. Looking up, I could see that light echoing back to the ground. We were surrounded by light, enveloped in it.

I quickly took my dressing gown from its peg, put slippers on my feet and raced down the stairs into the front hall. I wanted to see what was happening for myself. Not for a moment were either Jemima of myself afraid of the light. I wouldn't call myself brave exactly, as you know, but the concept of courage seemed irrelevant in the face of this extraordinary thing that was taking place. As I say, I wanted to see it for myself.

Thinking about it, there was something about this preternatural starlight that reminded me of that other light I often saw; the aura that hangs around people. The aura that reflects their soul. I have never mistaken a person's character if I have once seen their Dust-aura. In its light there are no lies or trickeries. Everything is clear. The cheat cannot deceive me, the honest man's probity is plain to see. Great souls have great auras; lesser folk shine correspondingly less brightly. Not even the form of a person's daemon can tell the truth about him the way the colour, size, motion and brilliance of his aura do.

I ran out of the front door of the cottage, leaving it wide open behind me. I had left the garden gate open, so I passed straight through it without stopping and stood by the side of the lock. It was empty, as the last boat of the day had been going downhill. The upper gates were shut and their balance beams jutted out on both sides of the lock. The water below the bridge was as dark as it usually is at night, but in the other direction it flashed with brilliant light, growing still brighter as I looked towards the north.

At first I was struck by the complete silence which had overtaken the cottage, lock and canal. The air was absolutely still. I had sometimes sat out here in the small hours of a summer's night and felt something of this silence, but even then there had still been the rattle and flutter of wings in the trees, the rustle of small animals in the bushes and the ever-present soughing of the water as it slipped over the weir at behind the cottage. But now there was nothing. Not even my breathing or the thump of my heart beating in my chest disturbed the silence. I held Jemima next to me. She was as still as the night; except that her eyelids flickered and her nose twitched once or twice.

I sat on the balance beam of the upper lock gate, cocooned in the quiet light and possessed by a feeling of great peace and calm, for some time. Nothing changed, except that the light slowly grew and, as I looked downhill, began to spread in the direction of Rickmonsworth. It was as if someone swimming impossibly deep in the canal was holding a giant anbaric torch whose beam he was gradually sweeping southwards. It may be that I forgot to breathe for minutes at a time, but I suffered no discomfort or distress as a result. My daemon and I were blissfully happy. We sat, Jemima enfolded in my cupped hands, and let the light wash over us, wondering what it signified but content simply to enjoy it for now. We sat for hours, or minutes, or seconds - I can't tell. I wondered how long it would last and what would happed when morning came.

Then the peace that enfolded me was brutally shattered. There was the roar of a powerful engine from the direction of the Hall and two beams of yellow light approaching fast. In a screech of tyres and a cloud of dust a sports car came skidding to a halt by the side of the picket fence. The driver flung the door open with a crash and leapt out. 'Am I too late?' she cried. It was Miss Moon.

'Oh no, not _her_ again,' said Jemima.


	3. Another Shore

I was fuming. Hadn't she created enough disruption and upheaval already? 'What do you want?' I said.

'Please? Is Arthur here? I've been driving all night.'

She was out of breath, her crimson evening dress badly crumpled and her hair coming loose from its fastenings and flapping wildly down her back. Her eyes blinked furiously in the starlight, reflecting its brilliant intensity into mine, and her aura swirled in spirals of blue flame around her head. She was obviously very anxious and disturbed and so I took a deep breath and put my anger to one side.

'No, he's not. Why do you ask?'

'He came to me again. I was at a reception in Caerdydd and…. He was there. He told me to come straight away… and then he vanished.' She stared at the canal. 'I got here as quickly as I could. What's going on? What's happening?'

I told Miss Moon about the coming of the light to my window. 'I've been sitting here waiting. Or not waiting. It doesn't seem to matter what I do. But something's going to happen, I think, whether I do something, or nothing. See, the light is growing brighter and brighter…' My voice died away. 'Shush! Listen!'

For there had been a subtle change in the silence - a change that had insinuated itself into the space between Miss Moon's words and mine. Now it contained its own character, colouring it with a tonal quality, just as black and white - those supposedly absolute shades - are capable of infinite variation. Try to imagine you've moved from an open space to a closed one and consider how the quality of the atmosphere around you alters correspondingly, changing its pressure on your ears. That was what it was like. The silence now contained a musical note which, as time slowly passed, expanded though the spectrum, growing in depth and vibrancy. The note grew, expanded into two parts, then into a tri-tone chord, then a bass rumble added itself. More chords sprang into being, harmonizing with the steady drone of the lower notes, rotating around a steady sequence, expanding to the upper limits of hearing.

The stars were singing to us.

Sonya Moon and I stood open-mouthed and drank in the sound. At the same time the light around continued to rise at an ever-increasing rate, so that I began to fear for the safety of my eyesight. I wondered whether people in London to the south and Brummagem to the north could see this supernal radiance, or whether it was somehow confined to the area around the cottage. I turned to Miss Moon to ask her if she had seen the light on her way here but before I could speak she pointed up the canal and said, 'Look!'

The brilliance of the starlight was reaching its peak a hundred yards to the north and at its heart there was something new. It was a dark shape - a shape which was moving towards us at a rate of two or three miles per hour. I could hear a new sound too; one which contrasted with the steady rhythm of the star-song. It was a clattering, chugging, puffing, splashing sound; one with which I was utterly familiar - the sound of a steam-powered craft making its way along the canal.

'Arthur!' Sonya cried out in delight, and before I could move she had hitched her skirts and scampered up the towpath in the direction of the approaching boat. Her pale legs flashed in the starlight.

I had no doubt that she was right, but I let her go and resumed my seat on the balance beam. It was only right that she should see him first; for had he not sought her out, not me? Soon I saw her walking by the side of the boat and heard her voice chattering happily with its crew. Only a few minutes later the boat reached the lock's upper landing stage. It would have to tie up there while the empty lock was filled with water. I could see Miss Moon talking to Arthur (Oh! It was wonderful to see him again!) and a man I didn't know. He was short, middle-aged, fair-haired and stout, holding a windlass. Good. There was something I could do, a way I could help.

'I'll shut the gates,' I called out to him, and he nodded.

Some lazy boatmen use the pressure in a filling lock to push the bottom gates shut, but that's bad practice because the crash as the water drives them together can cause damage. So while the fair-haired man opened the sluice-paddles I closed both gates by first pulling on their balance beams and then leaning my back against them. I had to cross the bridge twice to close the far gate and return and by the time I returned both top sluices were wide open and water was gushing into the lock chamber. There would be nothing else for me to do until the lock was full, so I approached the man with the windlass and offered him my hand.

'How do you do. I'm Chris Johns, and this is Jemima,'

'Pleased to meet you,' the man replied. 'I'm Peter Joyce.' He spoke with an Oxford town accent. We shook hands, and as his fingers touched mine I felt an extraordinary tingling in my fingers. I looked down and saw that his hand, which I had thought to be of common flesh and bone, was instead made of aura-stuff, flashing particles of amber light, glinting with constant motion. It was Dust. He was made all of Dust.

'Come along with me,' he said.' There are some people I would like you to meet.' We walked the few steps to the landing stage. Sonya Moon was standing in the cockpit, talking animatedly to Arthur, but I felt suddenly shy and reluctant to interrupt their conversation so I merely lifted my hand to him in greeting. We stepped on board and Peter Joyce led me into the boat's cabin, which had the strange property of seeming to be much bigger inside than outside. A number of people were in there, sitting in wickerwork chairs or standing by the stove. 'Look, everybody,' he said. 'This is a friend of Arthur's.'

He took me around the cabin. I shook hands with a slender woman with dark blonde hair who had once been a Professor at Jordan College in Oxford. I noticed that her eyes followed Mister Joyce around the cabin. There was a young woman - younger than me - in old-fashioned street clothes, who spoke in a prickly Cockney accent.

At some point Arthur and Miss Moon must have opened the top gates, cast us off from the landing-stage and worked us into the lock chamber, but I didn't see or hear it happen. I was busy shaking hands with a boatman called Harold, an old woman in black whose title was Mistress James, a short dark-haired woman, a middle-aged man wearing _pince-nez_ and a man with Latin features and dark curly hair from a place by the curious name of Cheegahtzay. They were all made of Dust, just as Mister Joyce was.

There was someone else; a tall, elderly man sitting in a chair in the corner of the cabin. He rose slowly to his feet as we approached. 'How d'ye do,' he said. I knew his face immediately and started to fall to one knee, as I knew I ought, but he stopped me with a smile. 'No,' he said,' we don't bother about that kind of thing here. Not any more.' I shook the hand of Alfred, _quondam_ King of Brytain, my head swimming with the wonder of it all, while Peter Joyce stood by and smiled.

All the time, the stars sang both outside and inside the boat while the canal water surged through the bottom sluices, emptying the lock once more. Miss Moon and Arthur piloted the boat out of the lock and moored up at the lower stage. I realised that I would have to leave soon, unless… perhaps…

'No,' said Arthur, suddenly at my elbow. 'No, this journey isn't for Sunny or for you. Not yet. Not for a great many years, we hope.'

'Are you…?' I asked. We were standing on the side of the canal, though I had no idea how we had got here.

'Dead? I should hope so! Safely dead at last. And I'm not coming back. Not this time!' Arthur laughed. 'Yes, Chris, this is my last trip down the cut. I'm going to the River, and then I'm setting out to sea…'

'Will this boat take you on the sea? Won't it roll over and sink?' I knew that canal boats, with their shallow draft and high sides, were not normally considered seaworthy.

'It'll take me wherever I want to go. My crew and me; we can go anywhere we like!'

'Then this is that last time I'll see you.' I'd known that all along really, but knowing it didn't make it any better. Not at all. Not in my heart. This was it - the last time I would ever see this crotchety old man who had rescued Jemima and me.

'Oh, Arthur…' I flung my arms around him. 'Please let me come with you!' But Arthur shook his head. I stood back. My disappointment must have shown in my face.

'What, and you with Finals next month? Don't be so soft!' Arthur rested his hands on my shoulders and looked up into my eyes.

'You mustn't be sad,' he said. 'You've grown, young Chris. You've grown tall and strong. Tall enough and strong enough for the life you're going to lead and the work you have to do.'

'The work I have to do? What do you mean? I don't understand…'

'You will. When it's time, you'll know; sooner rather than later, I think. Do you remember what I told you once, about gifts?'

'They're for giving, not keeping, you said. But…'

'You must use your gift. You must be ready to give from it, when it's needed. You must give it unsparingly, especially to Sunny...'

'Why did you go to her? Why not me?'

'Because,' and Arthur put his hand on my arm, 'I knew you'd be here when I needed you. Sunny… well, she's a gadabout. Very hard to track down, you know. All over the place.'

I smiled. Yes, I supposed Miss Moon could go wherever she pleased. Arthur went on:

'Listen; she needs your help, if anyone does. She's been though some hard times and she's still suffering their effects. She's haunted, you see. So please help her, for my sake. And don't forget what I told you; you mustn't ever calculate how much it costs to give from your talent. It doesn't work that way. It's not kept in the bank, you know.' Arthur chuckled. 'Right. Time to go. Cheerio, Chris.'

'So soon?' I said.

'We is afraid so. There's an ebb-tide for us to catch and new waters to navigate. Goodbye, Chris.'

'Goodbye, Arthur,' I said, wondering in the back of my mind what hard times the daughter of the Right Honourable Admiral Sir Ronald Moon, RN (Retd) could possibly have suffered from; and then I was alone on the bank and Peter Joyce had cast off and jumped aboard with the mooring rope in his hand, and the boat was receding into the distance taking Arthur and the starlight and the celestial music with it, leaving me behind.

'Goodbye,' I called out again, trying to stop my voice catching in my throat, and an echoed 'Goodbye,' came from the boat's cockpit. Arthur waved for the last time and then turned his face to the bow of his vessel, letting his right hand rest along the tiller as a proper boatman should. I pressed my knuckles into my eyes and turned away, shaking with grief. After a moment I heard a quiet voice say, 'Ahem.' I opened my eyes again. Sonya Moon was standing there, with a handkerchief held up to her face.

'Soppy, that's me,' she said. 'Everyone knows that. I'm famous for it. Come on, let's go inside.' She led the way to the cottage, whose simple plain solidity was suddenly exactly what we both needed. That, and a cup of tea.

- 0 -

For the first time Sonya introduced her daemon Alpharintus to me, and I reciprocated with Jemima. We both felt better for that; on good terms at last. Naturally we wanted to talk about Arthur and the boat and the Dust-people who made up its crew. 'Those were all his friends, then, were they?' I said. 'I didn't know any of them, except for the King, of course. They were dead, weren't they, all of them?'

'Yes they were. Oh, Chris, you've no idea how wonderful it was to see Peter Joyce again, after all these years. Arthur too, of course. We had such adventures together and it was so sad at the end…'

'The end?'

'Yes - look, I don't want to talk about that now. It was horrible, the fire falling and the roof crashing down on all those innocent people and… No, I'm sorry. Some other time, maybe.'

'Will you come and see me again, then?'

'What do you think?' said Miss Sonya Moon. 'Of course I will! We're Arthur's friends, aren't we? We'll sit here and talk as much as we like. The cottage is looking so nice now, and… gosh.' Her face fell. 'I have been a bit of a silly-billy, haven't I?'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' I replied with a grin.

'Yes I have. Doing all this,' she waved her hand around the kitchen, 'so the house'd be ready for Arthur, when that wasn't what he wanted at all.'

I shrugged my shoulders. 'It was hard to stop you.'

'I'm pretty unstoppable, once I get going.' Sonya laughed and I joined in. So did Jemima and Alpharintus. 'But it was stupid of me, all the same. He didn't want a new house…'

'…he only wanted you…'

'And you, Chris.' She rested her hand on mine. 'You were very precious to him. He told me so. He said that you and he have something very important in common.'

'Yes, I know. We do. He told me about you, too.'

Sonya blushed. 'Not _everything_, I hope.'

'No, not everything. He didn't have to. I can see it pretty clearly by myself.' I told her about my ability to see people's Dust-auras. 'That's the something in common Arthur meant. He understood you completely, just by looking at you. I think I understand you a little bit now, and that's how I know why you took this cottage over and restored it.'

'I was showing off. I was using my money to get my way.'

'Yes, you were a bit. I can't deny it. But - you were doing it for Arthur.'

'And I got it wrong! This wasn't what he wanted.'

'No it wasn't.' I took her hands in mine and looked deep into her crystalline hazel eyes. Something was beginning to dawn on me. Something Arthur had said. 'Listen to me, Sonya. I know what work it is that you're trying to do. The diplomacy, the travel. I can guess how tired you get sometimes.'

'I suppose so. How do you know? From reading my aura?'

'No - from reading the _Chronicle_. Oh, and _Gossip_ magazine.' Sonya Moon smiled ruefully.

'The price of fame, they call it.'

'Yep. But - let's talk about your work in the Diplomatic Corps. Would you call it difficult?'

'Yes, it is.'

'Important?'

'Yes, rather. The most important thing there could possibly be. It's something I absolutely _have_ to do.'

'Cleaning up after the War? Mending fences? Bringing people together who don't want to be brought together? Getting them to talk to one another? Knowing that one careless misplaced word can undo months of painstaking work?'

'Yes. All that. But especially making sure nothing like it ever happens again. That would be ghastly - a terrible waste.'

I thought for a few seconds. 'What's the worst thing about it?'

Sonya replied instantly. 'Betrayal. When you think you can trust someone and then it turns out they've been lying to you all along.'

'I thought so. Tell me; do you think it'll take a long time to finish your work?'

'What a funny question! Yes, of course it will.'

'All your life?'

'Probably.'

I nodded. 'You're right. It'll take all your life. And it'll be hard and difficult and frustrating as hell and every time you take a tiny step forward someone else will push you back again.'

'That's true.'

I smiled. 'And so, when you saw the opportunity to do something positive and straightforward, something that had an immediate tangible benefit, you grabbed it. A quick fix, we applied theologians call it. No complications, except for an inconvenient occupant who could easily be pushed to one side…'

Sonya shook her head. 'I'm sorry.'

'That's all right.'

'I might have guessed you'd understand - you and Arthur really do have an awful lot in common. I'm sorry. I really am. Do you forgive me?'

'Do you need to ask?'

Sonya leaned across the kitchen table and kissed me lightly on the lips. 'Thank you, Chris.' I felt a momentary wave of dizziness overwhelm me and I shook my head to clear it. Her aura was shining bright and fierce and brilliant and strong.

'You needed a holiday,' I said, 'and this was it. Don't reproach yourself. You were acting in good faith, with a good heart. And look! We both said our goodbyes to Arthur and we met the King and it's all turned out well in the end. I even got a nice new house out of it. I think there's something I can do in return and I'm sure that Arthur meant for us to meet each other. But there is one other small matter…'

'Yes?'

'One little forfeit I think you should pay to remind you never to be so daft again.'

'What is it?'

'You'll find out tomorrow morning. Now - let's get some sleep. There's a bed made up in the back room. Brand-new sheets, brand-new blankets and fully-lined curtains in an attractive floral print. Good night, Sonya!'

- 0 -

But we didn't go to bed; not right away. Instead, I made some more tea and we talked, mostly about our memories of Arthur. They were nearly all happy ones, and it lifted our hearts to be able to swap them between ourselves.

It's funny, but I didn't wonder at the time how it was that were able to put aside our grief at Arthur's death so quickly. Perhaps it was that Sonya and I had discovered that we were friends who had need of one another. I think that was his final gift to us.

- 0 -

It was six o'clock the following morning. We toasted the last of the bread and I put the empty milk bottle outside the door with a note cancelling all deliveries for the next eight weeks. I dropped my holdall on the step, locked the front door and made a last round of the doors and windows, checking that they were closed tightly.

The Merlyn was standing on the roadway outside. Even though it was still and its engine cold and silent it seemed to vibrate with power and speed. 'Would you like a lift to the station?' Sonya asked.

'Thank you, yes… but there's a condition attached. The forfeit I mentioned.' I smiled and held out my hand.

'And that is…?' Sonya was smiling too. She had guessed my meaning. Opening her handbag, she offered me a small silver key. I took it from her.

'Thank you.' I helped her into the car and closed the door behind her. Then I eased myself into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared into life immediately and I could feel its power throbbing through my body as I revved it up. Its song was a wild effervescence in my veins. I turned to Sonya. She was looking somewhat apprehensive - but she was still smiling - and her Alpharintus was covering his face with his paws.

I grinned back at them. 'Now hold on tight - we're going for a little drive!'

- 0 -

"And in the end their work will all be done, and Arthur and Harry will set sail in a different boat, and make their landing on another, farther shore."

_A Gift of Love_


End file.
